


decay

by athousandsilhouettes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: (they're not really in it but yolo), Abuse, Angst, Dragon Age - Freeform, Dragon Age 2 - Freeform, Hawke - Freeform, Hurt, Leto - Freeform, Memory Loss, Slavery, this ones a sad one guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 11:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17786855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandsilhouettes/pseuds/athousandsilhouettes
Summary: decayverbto decline in excellence; deteriorate.





	decay

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by this post I saw on tumblr!
> 
> Check it out here:  
> http://dacadaca.tumblr.com/post/124370604543/twitter-shenanigans-ft-khemi-what-a-good

****

 

**first night**

Consciousness ebbed in and out as the room Leto found himself in faded into existence every so often. His mind in a constant lull to his thoughts, then nothing. His surroundings, then nothing. He didn’t know what was worse, the searing pain that came with being awake, or the emptiness that followed whenever he drifted off. Either state was torture, as he felt there was no escape from the cycle of being and not. The awareness always took him by surprise, like it was the first time. Though he knew the passing of time was occurring, he never anticipated the pain. Each time it would catch him off guard, excruciating shocks that coursed along his body to the tips of his fingers and seemed to seep from his very bones. When the feeling became unbearable he would pass out, only to repeat it’s inevitable occurrence. Never ending until his begging for the relief of nothingness was the last thing before the black completely consumed him.

 

**day three**

He thought he had died. He’d _wanted_ to die. But everything had changed when he finally woke up. The collision of forces within him that tore him apart as fast as it put him back together left him feeling empty. The pain had dulled since, though a fog still lingered the depths of his thoughts.

He felt…

strange.

Who was he?

 _Leto._ It took a moment, but it was there. Pulled forward from the back of his memory. His name was Leto. And his sister’s Varania, his mother’s Maylin. Their faces, colour of their eyes and hair came flooding back. So, too, did those of the Magister who owned him, Danarius. The memories of the trial he’d entered to win his family’s freedom, resulting in the markings all over his body that left him in agony for the past day. As if only then realizing what all the trouble had been for, Leto held his hands up to examine them. Turning them around in a state of awe as he trailed the white lines down his arm to connect to his chest. The tattoos continued to flow down his legs and spread across his feet, no place left untouched by them. Leto shouldn’t have been this taken aback by the expanse of the markings, due to the insanity of their burning he’d grown so familiar with. Yet he studied the peculiar placement on skin now foreign to his eyes. 

Moving was a mistake, as his muscles screamed at the slightest shift, aching as he stilled once more. Noticing now the dried blood that dirtied the purity of the white that fought to fit itself along the surface of his skin. But Leto knew it ran much deeper than that, feeling heat course through veins threatening to burst underneath. No, not heat, _power._  

 

**day four**

_Leto, Varania, Maylin._ He’d repeat the names of all the people he knew in his head, to remind him of the sacrifice he had made. _Danarius._

Danarius had checked up on his experiment every day. Leto remembered seeing flashes of his face smiling down at him during the worst of what he endured that first night. An expression twisted into a sickening joy with dead eyes forever haunting him, he didn’t think he’d ever forget that image. He was aware of Danaruis’ presence even with Leto spending almost all of his time in fitful bouts of sleep. He would experience fever dreams regularly, tricked by reliving old memories of his childhood home, floor panels he and his sister had carved into. The smell of his mother’s turnip and parsley stew. The way the sky spilt sunset-orange hues across the land from the crooked tree he climbed on the outskirts of Minrathous. When he’d awaken from the spasms those memories would immediately dissipate. Like his mind was confusing them as only ever being dreams, long forgotten as they drifted from recognition. Never even knowing he would miss them.

He would recall ill memories in his dreams, too. The more recent ones of his life in servitude to Danarius. Leto and his sister as slaves to the Magister, willing his every command. The recollections of the fighting rings he’d enter followed. For extra coin, he had told mother. The feel of sweat dotting his brow from the exertion, the concentration of well-placed punches to his opponent’s weak points. The tang of blood hitting his tongue after a poorly timed hit, the heat of his breath after curing in Tevene. The rush of adrenaline from the crowds chanting his name. Those, too, began to fade alongside his consciousness.

When his eyes could stay open longer he still had no clear concept of his surroundings, though it seemed unimportant. His body needed time to heal, and Leto easily gave into the paralysis his body required. There was nothing else he could do. He was left alone with his thoughts and the thoughts Danarius spoke aloud. When he’d speak it was more to himself than to Leto. When it was clear Leto was coherent once again, that changed. Danarius told him of all the potential that was in store for Leto, how grateful he should be for having this gift bestowed upon him. People would kill to be in Leto’s position, he had said. But none of it sunk in, all except when Danarius mentioned he had fulfilled his promise of setting Leto’s family free. He had stood by his word and given them leave to pursue a life free from slavery.

Leto waited until Danarius left that night to let the tears spill from his eyes. He wept from relief in knowing that his family was finally safe. Thankful they did not have to suffer a day longer. He’d bought freedom one way or another. 

 

**day six**

_Fenris._

He hesitated a moment, that was his name right? Of course it was, it sounded right.

 _Fenris._  

Yes, he remembered now.

_Fenris. Varania, Maylin, Danaruis._

The pain by now had thoroughly subsided. Danarius had told him they were lyrium infused, granting him great abilities. He would be trained how to use them, of course. Once he was fit to, Danarius informed him. Fenris was to serve as his personal bodyguard. His slave. It was worth the price of his family’s freedom, that much he knew.

The markings had risen now, an indication of his body’s acceptance. They remained sensitive to the touch as they were still a fresh addition to his frame. It was complete. Fused with flesh, binding them forever to him. Inescapable to their hold on him.

**day seven** ****

_Varania, Maylin, Danarius._

Fenris… wasn’t his name. Not originally, he knew that. But it was now. A pet name Danarius had given him. He had started calling him by it after he awoke from the procedure. Gloated that it suited him. _His Little Wolf._ It didn’t bother him too much, not when he still knew the names of his mother and sister. Why would he want to keep his old name, he wasn’t that person anymore. He’d lost the person he was prior to the experiment, spent the last days unintentionally mourning his previous self. Fenris did not know the price he would have to pay in return. For a moment he was seized by the inevitable truth that lay before him. Having to stand idle as every memory he once held slipped through the cracks of his hands.

**day eight**

_Fenris, Varania, Maylin, Danarius._

He still knew their names. That’s all that mattered. He did this for his family. He did this for their freedom.

**day nine**

_Fenris…Valaria, Danarius._  

Shattered. That’s how he described the feeling. Like fragments of memory were lost from the slot they once resided. Sometimes he was tricked into thinking he’d found one, only realizing it didn’t fit with the other pieces of what was left of his mind. When had he become so fragile? An amassed body of strength with a mind of glass. An empty vessel. He felt a tear glide down his face. Fenris cursed himself for giving into exhaustion the night prior, wondering if he even recalled anything in his dreams this time. His sister’s name was more repetition than memory at this point. He felt a sob escape him as it dawned on him that he didn’t even know what it meant to him anymore. Was she dead? Was he mourning her? Fernis didn’t know. He’d never felt this afraid before. He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to forget! All he knew were his tattoos, all the pain they had caused him. Why did he want these? Balling his hands into fists, they glowed across his skin as he let his grief take over.

Fenris had grown restless during the recent days, a sign he took as gaining his strength back. But it wasn’t like before, his body held a force of newfound power that surged throughout him. He knew it to be the effect of the lyrium tattoos, they didn’t feel wrong anymore. It was almost humorous, in a sick and twisted way. His body continued to improve while he felt his mentality drain. To become so aware of your own deterioration had never brought forth such self-loathing in him before. There was absolutely nothing Fenris could do as he fell victim to his mind’s state of decay.

 

**day eleven**

_Fernis. Danarius._

Fenris stood behind his master, glancing at their forms in the mirror across from them. He held out one of his more formal robes for Danarius to slip his arms into. After perfecting his appearance, the Magister moved to acquire his staff, leaving Fenris alone. He stood suspended in the place he stood, unable to pull his gaze from the reflection in front of him. There he saw a ghost, white haired and paler than he once thought. Perhaps it was from how the lyrium markings cascaded along his skin. They trailed all the way up his neck and rested on his lips, moving his fingers to touch where they resided in disbelief. Fenris didn’t know how long he stayed watching the mirror’s reflection, trying to think of anything familiar.

The only thing that came to mind was Danarius, perhaps he was the only thing Fenris had left.

 

**day thirty-two**

Fenris waited until Danarius called his name to step from behind the curtain and down the marble staircase. His steps muffled by the spill of red carpet across its surface. He moved boldly, Greatsword balanced perfectly between his shoulder blades. Fenris adorned his newly acquired armour made specially to compliment his lyrium marks. The obsidian-grey pieces forming together to give a ceremonial-warrior feel with jagged and asymmetrical accents to showcase its deadliness. There were just enough gaps in its design to display the reason he currently descended. As if a spotlight were projected upon him, he was a masterpiece to be examined by the crowd that gathered before him. All eyes directed towards him with faces cast in awe and curiosity as they observed the brandings all over his body. The attention was overwhelming, yet not entirely unfavorable. There was something he couldn’t quite place in the looks some of the guests held, and it only took a moment to realize that the expression he was invoking was fear. They feared him, it fueled him.

Fenris remained stoic in his current company, reciprocating none of the enthusiasm they shared amongst each other. Some applauded in amazement while others whispered excitedly to those beside them, lips moving quickly, eyes lit. It was all white noise to Fenris, hearing only the pounding of his heart in his ears. As if the world was muted around him. All the while they gawked and pointed, smiles and teeth.

It would be so easy. To rip, to tear, to _slaughter_ each and every one of them that stood in the room. It wouldn’t even make him break a sweat, how easily he could cut through the crowd. But he wouldn’t. That’s not what he was here for. Fenris’ gaze moved steadily across all the faces until it landed on his master’s. Danarius stood basking in the glory that was Fenris. Proud of his own accomplishment in creating this weapon. He thanked the assembly surrounding him gracefully, as he was. Waiting for their voices to die down before explaining the process of his creation. Describing Fenris in a fashion that made him out to be nothing more than a possession of great value. Danarius would pause for dramatization at parts, and gesture greatly at others while explaining the power and abilities that came with the lyrium markings. Until finally he threw the attention on Fenris once more for his grand introduction. Eyes now locked on one another, he exclaimed, _“I have transformed a crude elf into a work of art. Behold Fenris, my wolf!”_ Once again the crowd roared in approval of the Magister’s work. 

All was as Danarius intended, Fenris was his bravado.

 

 

 

 


End file.
